I lost a friend and a mentor yesterday.
If a man could embody poetry, that man was Ron Ray.

Ronald Terry Ray
January 7, 1957-March 24, 2015

I have his books and a good idea of how he spent
his days. I wanted to sit with him – a pot of coffee
between us, and talk about the clowns he created,
the omens he thieved from crows. I wanted to watch
the clocks take time from us.

What I wonder is if he knew just how much
I loved his work: how often I watched him
make statements that grew into stories which held
no logic but owned the truth in a way most folks
can’t handle. He could place words on a page,
flatly but never flimsily – those words would get up,
do the work for those who lacked the imagination
to stir them. What he did with his writing was
a sort of magic, the kind everyone ought to believe in.

His stories made me sad, but could steal a grin
all in the same line; they made me want to own
my own sorrows – hold them up to the light and dare
them to shine. He made me not want to see the end
of anything, whether it was of a story or a moment.

]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/03/25/for-ron/feed/0chasingthegreyVeatricehttp://chasingthegrey.com/2015/03/23/veatrice/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/03/23/veatrice/#commentsMon, 23 Mar 2015 14:55:36 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=446]]>I could drink the thunder in
some evenings, let the roaring
of it all put a rumble in my chest—
holler out, and be heard.

Yet I lack the grace that should be
winding through my veins by way
of my great-grandmother: a woman
who was not once, but twice,
slapped down by strikes of lightning.

She was not held down, though; no,
not this woman who was made of gods,
and held their power on the very tip
of her tongue. She could spit the ugliness
of this world out like a wad of snuff
and carry on, unhindered by any of it.

Not even the sky, with all of its glory
and ill intent combined, could take
a thing from Mrs. Veatrice Guttery,
the woman who swallowed lightning
and walked on, as if it was natural.

]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/03/23/veatrice/feed/9chasingthegreyPassinghttp://chasingthegrey.com/2015/03/20/passing/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/03/20/passing/#commentsFri, 20 Mar 2015 15:04:58 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=440]]>Grief wrapped around me last night,
reminding me of the hardest ache
I’ve learned to live with. I curled
into the bend of the couch, recalling
silly things and finding solace
in the way the night moves.
Loss has lent itself to our family
in the same season it visited last;
the evening makes the same sounds
as it did then: crickets and cicadas
in the distance, cars crawling past
our homes—as if life is to carry on
the way it always does.

]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/03/20/passing/feed/5chasingthegreyLearning To Questionhttp://chasingthegrey.com/2015/02/20/learning-to-question/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/02/20/learning-to-question/#commentsFri, 20 Feb 2015 15:07:56 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=429]]>My young mind couldn’t fathom the thrashing
and jerking of the woman who seemed
to throw herself backwards against the floor.
We’d come to the video store to get movies
and a Nintendo game for my sister and I to pass
the weekend with. Momma, always so calm and easy,
led us away from the ruckus, never knowing
what was rolling around in my head.

Trying to occupy our minds so we wouldn’t see
any more of the devil taking that woman over,
Momma told us to pick out our movie and to stay
in the back of the store. But with curious eyes, I spied
through the shelved walls the EMTs rush in.

The woman, still shaking on the floor, had bloodied
the back of her head. Other customers, who’d been holding
her still, let go of her as people in blue uniforms took over.
I did not know if they were kind Christians, unwilling
to leave her with the devil, or if they were making sure
she’d go on to Hell. I couldn’t tell, and my time sitting
on the edge of pews, anxious to escape the red-faced swell
of Southern Baptist preaching, hadn’t given me
the know-how to judge the situation squarely.

Momma came and got us after the EMTs got the woman
up and aware. I figured God must have intervened
and given her another chance at righteous living.
Then we were told the woman had a seizure. As unholy
as that sounded, I didn’t know what to make of her future.

Able to tell we were confused by it all, our mother
explained on the ride back home just what a seizure is.
I sat there wondering why the woman hadn’t thought
to pray it all away. Next: I learned to question God.

]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/02/20/learning-to-question/feed/3chasingthegreyDylanhttp://chasingthegrey.com/2015/01/05/dylan/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/01/05/dylan/#commentsMon, 05 Jan 2015 17:21:40 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=416]]>Twelve years of life
in those tired bones;
he whimpers in his sleep.

My old dog dreams
of the chase.

]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2015/01/05/dylan/feed/4chasingthegreyButter Pecanhttp://chasingthegrey.com/2014/12/30/butter-pecan/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/12/30/butter-pecan/#commentsTue, 30 Dec 2014 18:08:37 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=413]]>For as long as I can remember,
the chair across from the television
was where I would sink into for safety.
She was there, my grandmother, sitting
on the couch: half Indian-style, her
left foot curled under her right knee
and her other leg stretched out, hanging
off the edge of the cushions.

On commercials, she’d lean lazily
on her left elbow and look over at me
while I spoke about the things that were
breaking me. I knew better than to talk
out of turn; Survivor and Wheel of Fortune
were the things that were to be concentrated
on. Life could be handled in due time.

I laid my load down on her coffee table,
knowing I’d have to pick it back up before
I left. It felt lighter, still, for a little while.
When things were at their worst and I could not
catch my breath, she’d hop up while I was still
talking and tell me to speak louder till she got back.

When she returned, she’d be struggling
to carry four butter pecan ice cream cones,
handing two off to me; a quick fix
should come in two servings, I learned.
Part of the mess usually leaked down the sides
of her hands; she’d lick it away like a child,
and would say she forgot napkins,
but we’d make it alright.

]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/12/30/butter-pecan/feed/6chasingthegreyConfinementhttp://chasingthegrey.com/2014/12/02/confinement/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/12/02/confinement/#commentsTue, 02 Dec 2014 19:51:49 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=410]]>I’ve little left for this place—
elsewhere has a charm to it;
if nothing more than new cold shoulders
to brush against, and fresh sets of eyes
to focus on my faults.
This small town, it had its warmth once;
I’m finding I am out of place now,
and know I cannot last here much longer.
I’ve tired myself out on these people
whose beliefs tangle around them;
I cannot cut them loose, nor do they want
to be untied. To see them not struggle
against their bindings is only confining me.]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/12/02/confinement/feed/4chasingthegreyMovementhttp://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/25/movement/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/25/movement/#commentsTue, 25 Nov 2014 18:27:02 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=408]]>There’s enough anger in the air to strangle anyone. Anyone can say they’d do this or that. That isn’t the point here. Here and now makes our tomorrow. Tomorrow is the focus. Focus on that – that we need tomorrow. Tomorrow will be our truth. Truth is noted after the fact. Fact isn’t respected in the now. Now is when we react to what happened then. Then was the foundation of it all. All must recognize what is needed. Needed now is ground to stand on. On this, plant yourself – yourself, and not someone else’s voice. Voice instead your hope, your rage. Rage against the wrongs, with your rights. Rights ought to be as free as breath. Breath should never be taken by hatred.]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/25/movement/feed/3chasingthegreyMissionaryhttp://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/23/missionary/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/23/missionary/#commentsSun, 23 Nov 2014 20:44:47 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=405]]>Collaboration with Jonatan Asbjørn AllinMy words are indented

I’m ready to be used, you said;
but you’ve no clue what I could do
to you if you let me.

It isn’t a matter of control,
a matter of fact, a sense of the matter;
it’s the thrill of losing them all.

Will you declare the same
when I gain the bend of your thoughts,
or take your latest hours for myself?

The turns you take yourself
lead you down predictable roads;
I choose to close my eyes.

I want your hands, your mouth—
not your eyes, or even your concern;
just the weight of you over me.

Let’s draw the blinds and see
what primal tongues our bodies choir
in the cosmos of the dark.

]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/23/missionary/feed/0chasingthegreyRegrethttp://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/20/regret/
http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/20/regret/#commentsThu, 20 Nov 2014 15:45:25 +0000http://chasingthegrey.com/?p=401]]>[improper noun] – the urgency once lacked; a person
proven undeserving; the static instilled in a mind
from not acting; an explanation to oneself; a doubt
previously made; the way fault is far too often defined.]]>http://chasingthegrey.com/2014/11/20/regret/feed/0chasingthegrey